Countering Optimism with Skepticism

He just does it to make me mad.

Keeper and I will be sitting in front of the TV, watching Anderson Cooper, and he will say, “Obama’s going to win by a landslide.”

”What are you basing that on?” I’ll ask.

“I read a lot. I am certain of it — it will be the worst defeat in history,” he’ll answer.

Then he gets this smug look on his face, the one that never fails to infuriate me.

Now, secretly I hope he’s right. Clearly, the polls show the Democrat is ahead. But what bugs me, and Keeper knows it very well, is that there’s no way to tell FOR CERTAIN how the election will turn out. Yet, he blithely makes “I’ll guarantee you” statements about events he has no control over.

Sure enough, my innate skepticism kicks in.

“What if there is voter fraud again?” I say. “Or what if people get to the polls, and even though they told CNN they were voting for Obama, they discover they can’t overcome their racist upbringing? It could happen!”

At this point, Keeper is grinning, watching me work myself into a frenzy.

“Nope,” he says. “Double digits. Mark my words.”

Politics is not the only subject my husband is cocksure about. 

While I am fearful that if he lost his job (or quit) we would rapidly become homeless, Keeper is absolutely positive that we would be able to keep the house and our standard of living as well.

This very topic was the discussion at dinner one night last week. “Look, he said. You have a pension. I have a pension. We have Social Security. We’ll be fine.”

“Do you have any idea how much it costs to live in our house?” I said. The property taxes alone are more than $600 a month!”

“No problem,” he said, dipping a chip into the salsa.

My voice began to rise. “Then there’s the mortgage, insurance, utilities, cable, maintenance…”

“Got it covered,” said Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky.

“Did you plan to sell your car for food? Or are you going to plant vegetables in the front yard?” I asked.

“Mary, There’s no need to panic. My job is secure, and I’m not thinking of retiring anytime soon. I’m just talking.”

He cheerfully dug into the carne asada, but I continued to fume long after we finished the flan. When my husband insists on being so devil-may-care about possible disasters, it is my job to worry for the both of us.

The next time he made his “We’ll be able to keep the house no matter what” statement, I was ready for him. “Prove it!” I said. “Show me the numbers!”

If he could show me in black and white that he knew the facts and hadn’t just based his statement on blind optimism, I could stop worrying for two.

That night, Keeper came home and put down his briefcase. “I ran the numbers,” he announced.

“Well? What did you discover?”

“We’ll be fine,” he said.

“Let me see them,” I said.

“Uh, I left them on my desk at work,” he said, although it sounded an awful lot like, “The dog ate my homework.”

“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Get back to me on November 5. We’ll just see how this optimism thing works out.”